


fieldwork and subject sketches

by ohroses



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M, Politics, Research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-08 02:50:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohroses/pseuds/ohroses
Summary: Robin inherits a reluctant kingdom, Miriel recruits a delicate apprentice, and the Risen aresucha mystery to behold. And you know what we do with mysteries in Ylisse.





	fieldwork and subject sketches

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up to fea fandom 5 years late with chrobin and lonmiri and magic zombie lore* i haven't even finished the game yet but i'm spoiled for everythign and i'm obsessed w chrobin, robin as queen, and miriel.
> 
> let me tell you something: i was not thinking about canon events or anything while writing this. i was thinking about *miriel voice* the concepts that lie underneath

“Your Majesty,” Miriel says, gesturing to the open seat in front of her. She shuts the book she’s been vaguely looking over and tries to remember if she’s done anything recently that might warrant a sudden visit from Robin. The gunpowder was last week, and she’d already had that visit. Twice.

Robin steps delicately over the pile of books that’s begun to form near the door but doesn’t make a remark on the uncharacteristic mess. “You needn’t call me that,” she says earnestly. “Old friends don’t need to use titles like that.” Miriel snorts.

“Nonsense, you’re the Queen of Ylisse now. You’d do well to make your peace with that. I will help by referring to you, as your familiar and trusted friend, by your title. You should ask Chrom to do that too, it will help you internalize your position.”

Robin shudders. “No, absolutely not. Imagine?” She shudders again. “But thank you for the advice.”

“What brings you to my study, Your Majesty?”

“There’s been a series of attacks, the Risen, in fact. I wanted to ask you to come with me to investigate a particular case.”

“Me? Why, I haven’t gone on a mission since… Well, since the wedding. Neither have you.”

“This is different.”

“Tell me,” Miriel says, already forgetting the book in her hands now that there’s an interesting story in front of her. Robin takes a breath.

“I’ve been accepting audiences with refugees and survivors. Today an interesting case came up.”

“Why have you been doing this? I need all the factors first, dear.”

“Oh. I want people to like me?” Robin shrugs. Miriel is unhappy with this and disappointed to hear it.

“First: do not phrase anything that is not a question as a question. Such a habit projects weakness and a dim mind, which do not suit you. Try again, but with the manner of a queen. Or at least with the brains of an accomplished tactician.”

Miriel is almost offended when Robin hesitates, very nearly, but she remembers that this is Robin, and Robin sometimes needs a little push. Miriel attempts a smile, and Robin sighs.

“I wish to project a front that endears my subjects to me,” she tries again. “I am not popular as a choice.”

“Chrom has vouched for you.”

“Still, who wants a girl who woke up without any memories in the middle of some field for a queen?”

“I do,” Miriel says curtly. “I would want no one else. But for your own future reference? Never let me hear you do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Never insult or demean yourself. Plenty others will be doing that, there’s no need to lend them your efforts, too. Try again, from the top.” Robin stares, but Miriel merely lifts her eyebrows in expectation.

She gives in, clearly a little embarrassed. “I am an unknown woman rising in the ranks of their kingdom, now in the highest position of power I can attain, and they are suspicious of me because they do not know my origins or intentions. They believe Chrom might have been seduced. That I… am taking advantage of him.”

Miriel looks her up and down. “Are you certain they think he’s been seduced? This isn’t some bizarre, internalized anxiety of yours? It feels far-fetched to my own ears, truth be told.”

“Miriel!”

“My apologies, I merely wondered. Looking at you, it’s hardly the first conclusion to which one arrives.”

Robin looks down at herself, probably seeing someone mostly unassuming and slightly strange looking. Robin is all of that, of course, but Miriel meant something a little more abstract than looks. Seduction is in a certain attitude, and Robin doesn’t have the bearings of a seductress.

Robin finally speaks, looking up from her entirely ordinary middle, right back to sounding hesitant. “Yes, they definitely think that. A lady leaned over her plate to call me a temptress yesterday. People stare like they’re wondering things about me.”

Miriel hums, her gaze sliding away from Robin and to the window. “Interesting,” she mutters, to all appearances distracted and no longer paying attention. Robin knows her better than that, so she waits patiently. After a long moment, Miriel’s gaze slides lazily back to her, a bright feeling in her chest. “I wonder,” Miriel says. “What those people can be made to think of you with the _right _motivators.”

Robin smiles widely at the words. “I knew I could count on you. I haven’t even told you about the case yet.”

“We will come to that,” Miriel says, putting her book away finally, “I should have realized that I could count on you to keep me from getting too bored.”

“You’ve been bored?”

Miriel shrugs.

“Where is he?”

Miriel tries not feel irritated that it’s a given fact who “he” is. “I am not sure.” Her tone is clipped now, and her words are concise in a way that she can’t help when she’s unhappy. She tries again, hoping to dispel Robin’s concerns. “He has not done this before.”

“I’m sure he’ll come around,” Robin says, obviously trying not to sound concerned. “He’s probably just busy.”

“With _what_? Do not try to soften the situation to me. I value honesty, Your Highness.” Robin visibly gives up at the onslaught, to Miriel’s relief. “Tell me, now, the case in question.”

Robin pulls out a notebook. “Like I said, we’ve been taking more immediate audiences with the people. It’s had mostly a positive effect, but it seems as though some parties are intent on taking full advantage of the direct ear to Chrom. So, we have a bit of a situation.”

“Naturally,” Miriel says, waiting as patiently as she knows how.

“The Northern Villages have been facing Risen more and more in the past months, but they are in such complete isolation that word does not reach the Shepherds until it’s either too late or pointless to make the trek. We tried establishing an outpost there, remember? Last year.”

“I do, it was impossible to sustain. The cold inspired nothing but inefficiency.”

Robin sighs. “No, the conditions for an outpost were inhumane.”

Miriel waves her hand impatiently. Robin rolls her eyes, and Miriel feels something like fondness. It has been so long since they were able to work together like this, not since before the Plegian attack, at least.

Robin continues. “The Chief of the northernmost village claims it is owed reimbursement for lost livestock.”

“Livestock? What about human lives?”

“No word on that, just livestock,” Robin says. “He makes the claim that the crown’s inability to provide complete protection or at least a speedy response is grounds for some form of compensation. The Risen in that area have a negative reaction to the cold, remember?”

“I do,” Miriel smiles, remembering Lon’qu’s teeth chattering as they stood in the snow and watched the strange, dead bodies moving stiffly ever closer, at paces far slower than any other Risen they had encountered elsewhere. Lon’qu with his sword ready to strike if it came too close, if something went wrong, irritated but silently respectful of her need to know. Maybe she ought to revisit those notes. There might be something there. Lon’qu was her best research assistant to date, not a word of complaint unless she herself was in danger. A strange man—

She shakes herself. “What about those notes?”

“What notes? Oh, the Risen you studied, yes. Well, I wanted to go do an inspection. Chrom wants to just hand over the money, but I don’t know…”

“You know, an inspection of any sort will not endear you to the villagers. Though, I suppose they’re isolated enough that you can manage any ire—”

“No, Miriel. We’re not going to the Northern villages. That was one example. That was just the first one. More villages have come forward, demanding compensation.”

Miriel stares. “How intriguing. Why do you need me?”

“Because this case… deserves a second pair of eyes.”

Miriel beams, even though Robin winces at the sudden grin, and stands. “Well then, when do we move?”

The wind is strong, but the evidence is untouched by the conditions, as far as she can see. Miriel leans in to inspect the gates.

_We send parties to examine the damage and evaluate the cost every time, but this time we will accompany the party. _

_That’s not the best way to gain their love and admiration, _Miriel had told her in her usual honesty. _They will resent an investigation presided over by the queen, and assume you are the stumbling block to immediate compliance._

Robin had merely smiled, and said nothing, but now Miriel understands.

“You want a buffer,” she mutters. Robin smiles, again, in that way that is reserved only for the battlefield and perfect manipulations. Sharp. Miriel admires it and knows the feeling of seeing that smile aimed at the enemy, though she almost dreads what it means, now, to be at the receiving end of it.

Still, she trusts Robin. Not because she is the Queen of Ylisse, but because she trusts the Shepherd, the tactician, the stranger. She straightens from her position, puts her notebook away, and trusts her friend.

Miriel turns to the village elders gathered, to the small crowd of commoners and the farmer with crossed arms and an expectant look on his face.

“I cannot believe that I am positing this,” she begins, and Lon’qu meets her eyes directly for the first time in a long time, and it’s with something like curiosity. Miriel turns back to the farmer. “Those Risen are innocent of this crime.”

The cries of outrage are deafening, and she feels something like warmth in her chest when Lon’qu immediately steps in front of her, staring down the farmer shouting questions in rage and disbelief. Feeling, in a strange new way, completely safe to spout her theories, Miriel peeks around Lon’qu’s considerable size and says her piece.

“These fences are forced open at the lock,” she says.

“The Risen have superhuman strength!” Robin exclaims, aghast in a completely fake way that Miriel sees right through. Miriel narrows her eyes, realizes what is happening, and then pinches the bridge of her nose, dislodging her glasses and irritating her more. Of course. She should have expected that Robin would outsmart everyone present.

Robin is clearly not concerned with Miriel’s feelings, for she continues, in that same cloying, fake way: “Why, I daresay those Risen could plow right through this sturdy, well-made barn door!”

The villagers clamor in agreement, siding with their Queen, and the farmer looks smug to have her support. He smirks like he expects Miriel to stand down before the Queen. Hah. Miriel feels a stab of pride at being the Queen’s chosen adversary.

“No, consider, if you please: The Risen barely know how to use human weaponry correctly, and if you remember, their humanity as well as their minds erode with time as their strength grows. For a Risen to have destroyed this lock with its bare hands it would have needed to know that the lock stopped him from entering the enclosure or, if it was not far enough progressed, it would have needed only to take _that mallet and crush the lock_.”

Robin gasps, bringing a dainty hand to her mouth in shock, convincing every villager and no one else. Miriel steps past Lon’qu, ignoring his frantic grab at her arm and shaking him off.

“What if it did,” Robin begins, delicately and with a layer of disgusting parody only Miriel and Lon’qu can see, “take that mallet and crush the lock?”

“It would have had the foresight, in that case, to jump the fence.”

“Hah, then how would it have stolen my cows?”

“By unlocking the gate and proceeding from there, you dimwit.”

Lon’qu steps forward again, facing down some two hundred pounds of angry farmer with a blank stare, and Miriel decides to shoot another few insults to see how well Lon’qu holds up. Disappointingly, he merely shoves a hand over her mouth and glares at her.

“Why,” Robin titters, and Miriel snorts at her because that’s quite enough now, “do you think the Risen were _framed?_”

“I think if we follow this strangely brushed and even dirt road to its end, we might find a place where the cows may be.”

They do that, the village elder nearest the farmer yanking the back of his collar when he tries to run, and they find the cows. Robin doesn’t look surprised in the least, but when she turns to face the villagers her face is all aghast and mournful.

“Oh,” she says, quietly and plaintively, and the village elders begin their obeisance.

Miriel leaves that alone for now, returning to the gate, Lon’qu not far behind.

“Lon’qu,” she calls.

“Yes?” He answers as he always does and comes to stand beside her. It’s like those weeks of sullen silence never happened.

“Remember those observations you helped me with, in the north?”

“Yes.”

“I wish to do something like them again,” she says. “Will you help me?”

“Of course,” he mutters. “Can’t have you dying because you’re watching an enemy come at you with an axe and taking notes about the iron the axe made of.”

“We will need another assistant, I think. You were a truly atrocious witness.”

“Axe. Big. Evil. Kill.” He rolls his eyes. “Not much more complicated than that.”

“You have no imagination, you oaf. I’m astounded you’ve survived this long.”

“You have too much imagination, you madwoman. And it’s thanks to me that you’re alive to insult me, so think on that.”

Miriel is relieved that he fires back so quickly. “I am gratified that you are back to your usual self, Lon’qu,” she says, trying a hand at honesty.

He looks surprised at her confession, and his face colors slightly in an unusual way, like it does when he’s training or running to save her or—

“I… just had a lot on my mind. Sorry if I worried you, or something.”

“Not at all,” she lies. “I merely wondered if there was something I could do to help.”

“No,” he says. “But thanks. I think.”

The march home is like one of victory, but slower. They are laden with gifts and presents. The village was generous in its apologies for wasting the time of the Queen and in its gratitude that she did not demand the farmer’s head or anything like that. Lon’qu is silent, of course, but not in that grim and stressed way that he has been recently. He seems lighter, like old times. Miriel rides beside him and enjoys his company, plans an expedition north in her mind, and she is content.

But they absolutely will need an assistant, she decides, shooting Lon’qu an evaluative look. He’s… She would want him by her side, in anything, but he is not a man suited for research.

“So that was a success!” Robin crows, falling back onto the bed and grinning at the ceiling. Chrom flops down beside her, an arm over her middle and his face in the pillows. She turns to him and shuffles closer. “I got Miriel to play the advocate, so that I didn’t’ have to. Told you I’d find a way around it all.”

“Nice to know that my queen is not quite finished spinning circles around everyone,” he says, slurred and obscured, slightly, by the pillow. “I’m so proud of you. I’m going to—”

The rest is muffled, but sure enough, when she pokes the back of his head in question and then cards her fingers through his hair, he does not stir. He’s fast asleep. She kisses his hair and wiggles out from under his arm, far from tired. She turns out the lights and closes the doors to the balcony behind her gently.

No, she is not tired at all. She feels alive and awake in ways she hasn’t since the wedding. It feels like her new title finally fits better; it feels less like she’s impersonating someone.

She has no grand gestures to show the people of Ylisse, she has no inexhaustible love or patience, and it’s true that she has no desire to rally them to her by using Plegia as an enemy.

She has barely enough memories to add up to a year of living, she has barely any semblance of a self that does not merely echo this past year of battles, grief, and desperate thinking. She has spent more of her life with a finger to her lips, pacing, than she has laughing. Smiling. She doesn’t know who she is without that, without the rush of an enemy in front of her.

No, she has nearly nothing.

But she has her mind, and Chrom. She leans over the balcony and watches the stars until they dizzy her. Until her mind is spinning under them with plans and ideas and dreams. Exhausted, she eventually returns to Chrom, who is snoring, and wiggles back under his arm.

With a smile, she sleeps.

Miriel is glaring at his head. He can feel it. He’s tempted to give in and ask what’s wrong, but he knows that would be tempting fate too much. She’ll either get tired of waiting for him to read her mind or she’ll forget what’s bothering her. He gestures for Lissa to toss another dummy into the ring, and she does, with great delight, giggling and tossing back another candy when he dislodges the dummy’s head from its body.

He’s practicing, and Miriel is very irritated about something, and she’s not letting up. Two dummies later, Lissa’s bored groans start to pop up more often than her delighted snorts, so he plunges his sword into the ground and turns. Miriel doesn’t actually look that angry, but the glare is definitely intense. He can never read her.

“Miriel?”

“Lon’qu,” she steps forward and over a dummy’s head, a look of disgust briefly marring her usual placid face. “I can see that you’re busy, but I was rather hoping you’d spare me a moment.”

“Of course,” he says without thinking, and then curses himself. “What’s going on?”

“I have selected a number of potential assistants to lend me their efforts,” she says. “I need your input before I select one.”

“Why mine?”

“You will be assisting me too; I would want you to be involved with my choice.”

“Oh.” He fidgets, despite himself. “I actually might not be able to join you.”

“What.” She’s angry now, he can tell from the way her ability to form questions and control her tone is slipping. He winces.

“I have a job,” he mutters. “I have to take it.”

“You’ve taken fifteen this month alone!” she cries. “You cannot be that pressed for funds! You are funded by the Shepherds!”

“I want to buy a house, Miriel,” he grumbles, embarrassed. He’d hoped to do this quietly. “I live in a _tent_.”

“I have a house, come and live with me. I will not resent sharing my living space with you. I need your undivided attention and your focus, however, and I will not split it with some skull-bashing that isn’t utterly necessary.”

“Gods, it’s like you don’t even think,” he snaps. “I can’t just move in with you. Don’t you remember? That… When we…”

“When we _what?” _

“When I told you… that I… that my feelings. That is—”

Miriel stares at him as he stumbles over the words, a look of absolute confusion on her face. Then it lights up in understanding, and Lon’qu feels the need to take his sword from the earth and run himself through with it.

“Heavens,” she gasps. “Do you mean to say that you are agonizing over not being able to provide for me in some archaic and condescending rite of manhood?”

Lon’qu frowns. He’s not sure what those words mean, not exactly, but he’s certain they’re humiliating. “I live in a _tent_.”

Miriel scoffs. “I live in a _house_. A perfectly optimal one too. With a view of the library and a brook in the garden. Come live with me, Lon’qu.”

“No. No, you’re not taking me seriously. I knew you weren’t. I’ve been deluding myself this _whole time_—” She steps close to him and he falls silent when she reaches out to take his hand. His heart feels like it’ll stop, or like it might fall out of his mouth and plummet to her feet.

“This is my fault, in part,” she says, not unkindly. “I want to apologize. Truly. I have been remiss in my treatment of you since you bared your heart to me.”

“N-no… No, no I don’t… I don’t think so.”

“I have been,” she insists. “I am sorry. I am not sure how to act around you now, because my feelings have not changed. I want to be by your side, and I want you to be by mine. I am content when I am with you. I see no reason to change my behavior when the results thus far have been ideal. Perfect, even. I fear change, now.”

“I—”

“Let me speak. You’ll only stutter more, dear.”

He nods, silently, and watches her smile. He feels better, though nothing has changed. It’s disgusting. She still has his hand, and now she lets it go to straighten his collar, like she often does. He hasn’t noticed till now that she doesn’t ask anymore, she simply reaches out and fixes it. He covers her hand with his own, keeping it close to his chest. She goes a little pink, which is rare, but he makes the decision then and there to see how often she can.

“As… as I was saying,” she stutters. “Stop that, you’re distracting me.”

“Stop what?”

“I said don’t talk, you’ll only make it all worse.”

He smiles, lips closed, and fights off a laugh when she clearly scrambles to try and remember what she was saying. “Good Gods,” she says. “What was I only just now saying, Lon’qu?”

He shrugs.

“You may speak.”

“You were saying something about this being partly your fault.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you for the reminder. Indeed, I have been negligent. I will do better now. I will make calculated but earnest efforts to maintain your attention and keep your doubts at bay.”

“Miriel.”

“Affection, yes? The lack thereof has caused this spiral? This hapless descent into self-conscious self-deprecation?”

“Miriel!”

“I can provide affection and attention in spades! Shovels, maybe. I will need to practice, but I swear to you now this oath: You need not worry about my feelings waning because you live in a tent, Lon’qu.”

“Stop, you’re making me feel worse…”

“It’s perfectly permissible that you live in a tent! You are, after all, a swordsman of no means and less renown!”

“Miriel, I swear—”

“So, come and share your life with me.”

“What?”

“That is the source of your agonies, correct? You wish to marry me, but you feel you cannot because you live in a tent and you don’t know how to make money without selling your sword? Marry me, regardless, and I will take care of the rest.”

He stares down at her, her hand still clasped to his chest, and he loves her. “All right,” he says. “All right, I’ll marry you.”

“Well, of course you will, for we love one another.”

“We do.”

“I love you, to be clear.”

“I love you too,” he says, awed.

“Have I dispelled your fears? Your anxieties? Have I sufficiently convinced you that I love you even though you live in a tent?”

“You can stop saying it like that.”

“Because if I have, then the candidates _are_waiting, dear. I won’t be spending weeks on end in the north without you.”

He sighs, pulling her closer. “Let’s go then. In a minute.”

“This is my fiancé,” Miriel announces that evening when they stop by the barracks to tell Frederick that the plans for the expedition are proceeding smoothly. “He and I will wed and be married sometime soon. Please be alert and aware in case the date is decided.”

The queen looks up from her boardgame with her husband, the king. “I’m very glad to hear it. Please keep us updated, Miriel.”

“Of course. Your husband; he cheats as we speak,” and she leaves with that, Lon’qu smirking behind her. They can hear Robin cursing Chrom and his offspring (her offspring too, presumably) and Lon’qu feels his heart nearly burst when Miriel links their hands together.

“I’m so glad you’ve come to your senses, my love.”

Lon’qu sighs.

Lon’qu looks over the dossiers Miriel has compiled on each candidate they met, shoving them each under the light of the single lamp he can fit into his tent. His tent isn’t all bad, to be clear, and it’s only his because he prefers it to the barracks. It’s warm and compact enough that he can pack less clothing and sleep in whatever he strips down to. He’s in dire straits now, trying to figure out which of them will suit the mission best, before an idea comes to him. He puts the dossiers away and lies back, dimming the lantern and thinking.

There were three candidates. The first was a serious young man with an extensive history in studying black magic, the second was a girl with near perfect grades at the academy and a great admiration for Miriel, and the third was a young woman whose grades rivaled the latter and a track record that almost matched the former. The first spoke eloquently and coolly, unintimidated by Miriel’s questions. The second had an air of arrogance about her and self-assurance that he found off putting and suspected that she might come from a great amount of money. The third, however.

“We can help her,” he told Miriel that morning. “Think about it. The first guy’s going to do great no matter what, and the girl with the grades—”

“She’ll go far on money alone, let alone her grades.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, you were looking for an assistant, but maybe it’s about time you took on an apprentice.”

“An apprentice? Is a husband not enough work?”

“Hey,” he protests. “I don’t need to be taught anything.”

“Not yet, maybe. But there’s so much left to find out, don’t you see?”

“The apprentice, Miriel,” he reminds her.

“The assistant, Lon’qu,” she corrects, and takes back the dossier. She looks it over, and something softens in her gaze. “She follows a pattern I recognize, at second glance.”

“What’s that?”

“She is like our queen in some respects. Self-effacing but competent. Let us help her.”

“Oh, now it’s a great idea because it’s your idea?”

“She reminds me of my friend,” Miriel proclaims, ignoring him, already pulling out a piece of paper to write on. “I will offer her a position.”

Lon’qu, like he often does with Miriel, sighs and goes along with it.

Miriel tells Robin the next day that she has decided on an assistant and that her party of three will need a battalion to accompany them north, as well as a wagon of supplies. Robin listens to all this, rolling the map she had been marking before the interruption and putting it away.

“You sound like you have this all perfectly planned out, then,” she says.

“Yes, we need only the funding now.”

“Excellent. I cannot offer it.”

Miriel waited for the end of the joke, politely, but when it did not come, she felt betrayed. “Robin?” She drops the title.

“I can’t fund it myself,” Robin explains, looking honestly regretful. “I had every plan to, but I genuinely cannot have my name behind it.”

“Funnel me the money under a guise, then,” Miriel demands.

“That’s not ethical, Miriel. I’m the queen now.”

Miriel scoffs. “Ethics. Always getting in the way.” Robin does not look impressed, so Miriel switches strategies. “Your Majesty, you must see how useful a full-scale study of our enemies would be.”

“The Committee finds that naming them and determining them enemies is enough to fight them and protect the citizens of Ylisse.”

“I am fully aware!” Miriel cries. “I was the special counsel to that committee!”

“Then you know how stubborn they can be, and how their tongues can wag. I narrowly avoided a disaster by calling on you, and I’m grateful, but I can’t do much to fund the expedition.”

“Then what steps do I take from here?” Miriel sighs. “Do I give up? Do I forget about this? Do you expect that I go begging the academy for funds? They hate funding me.”

“No, I didn’t say that,” Robin says, with a tone like she wants Miriel to find what she’s actually saying. “But I’m sure funding can be extracted from elsewhere.”

“I admire your dedication to me, but you would never forgive yourself if you embezzled from this kingdom. Chrom would also be livid.”

“Miriel, for heaven’s sake. I’m an unusual woman, maybe, but I’m not a criminal. You can get money from _anyone _with too much money.”

“A heist, I see.”

“No! Lon’qu has been a terrible influence on you. No. You need only convince one of the nobles that your venture is crucial and valuable, and that the Halidom of Ylisse would be eternally grateful to have someone with enough foresight to commission it.”

“Oh, I see. You prove, as always, to be a most formidable and clandestine tactician.”

“Thank you,” Robin smirks. “Talk to Lissa about getting into this new year’s celebration ball. She’s an expert at sneaking in Gaius and her riff-raff under Chrom’s nose.”

“You adore Gaius, I’ve observed that you do.”

“I do, but he is riff-raff, you must admit.”

“_I _do not adore Gaius, so it’s no trouble for me to admit anything of the sort. The boy’s a menace.”

“Talk to Lissa. Talk to some nobles, dress-up, don’t bring Lon’qu.”

“But I wish to bring Lon’qu.”

“Then tell him not to talk. The ball’s in two weeks, find someone to schmooze the upper crust for you or do it yourself.”

“I will find someone else. I despise all manner of events such as this. I thank you, Robin, for aiding me despite the hardships in my quest for knowledge.”

“Yeah, yeah. I guess it’s best if you don’t show up yourself, it’s my first one as queen. Chrom’s beside himself. Miriel? What are you thinking?” Miriel had gone strangely still.

“Oh, now I wish we had chosen the rich girl.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just regretting my character‘s positive development now that there’s a monetary impetus to cease and desist all moral growth.”

“Was that a joke, Miriel?” Robin asks, grinning, disbelief clear in her tone.

“My fiancé is a healthy influence, I believe.”

“Lon’qu _never _jokes.”

“Really? I find him quite comically inspiring.” Miriel thinks of the way his clothes are always in disarray, the way his grumbles can be so petty, and his agonies over living in a tent. 

“I’m glad you’ve found each other. But neither of you will be able to talk a noble out of his money, so you’d do well to think about _who _you want to send in your place.”

“The pulses of light, the portals, appear intermittently and sporadically but there _is_a pattern one can follow,” Miriel explains, eyes on her maps. “If one consults the Shepherds’ records, there is a way to plot the attacks of the Risen beside the appearances of various portals in the area, including the main one that released the highest number of Risen in Ylisse--” She turns her head to look at the girl seated behind her. “Are you able to follow all this data?”

A look of panic washes over her face, but then it’s carefully hidden away. “Yes,” the girl clearly lies.

Miriel, who has never been a very good teacher, fights the old habit of saying “apply yourself.” This is her apprentice now. Instead she turns away, with great difficulty, from the data and seats herself across from the girl. If only she could remember her name.

“It’s imperative that you understand both my ideas and are able to respond to them, do you wish for me to explain anything again before I move on?”

The girl bites her lip. “Could you—” Miriel leans forward earnestly and the girl blushes. “Explain to me exactly what _you _think the Risen are?”

Miriel stares at her and a smile grows on her face despite herself. “I cannot.”

The girl’s eyes widen, and she blushes harder. “I’m sorry—”

“No, do not apologize. This is a good question. Let us consider the various possibilities together, yes?”

“A—All right.”

“What do you think they are?”

“Something dead?”

“I believe so too, and we can assume that their bodies and their minds have some great disconnect.”

“Why?”

“Hm?”

“Sorry.”

“No,” Miriel says. “Why what?”

“W-why can we assume… That there’s a disconnect?”

“An incisive inquiry,” Miriel says. “Have you ever seen a Risen in person?”

“N-no. I’m not allowed outside the city.”

“Why not?”

“My father is worried about the war and the Risen are very vicious and the various brigands and the—”

“I see. He knows you’re going to accompanying me north, correct?”

“Yes,” the girl says with a wince. “He does. We had a fight about it. But it’s for my future.”

“I regret sincerely that you have been at odds with your father.”

“It’s fine. I introduced him to Lon’qu and he decided if Lon’qu was there it’d be fine.”

“Lon’qu is indeed a very reassuring force,” Miriel concedes, glad to hear that her apprentice comes from practical stock. “He is my fiancé.”

“Yes, you’ve… mentioned that. A couple of times.”

“We will be married.”

“Yeah.”

“What were we discussing?”

“The Risen,” the girl mutters, fidgeting with her quill. “We were talking about how I’ve never seen one before.”

“Oh, yes. When you see your first one you will understand. They are fundamentally inhuman, a step below us, you might say.”

“Oh. I heard they’re shaped human.”

“They were once human; of that I am certain. The masks that obscure their faces, as well as their red eyes, may be a clue to what animates them. But in terms of speaking accurately about their nature, we will need to approach this empirically.”

“How?”

“Without fear getting in the way, and without emotion. Are you ready to continue?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Now, we could potentially assume that my observations from six months ago are applicable across the board for each Risen individually, but we actually have no evidence to do that.”

“Didn’t you do that to help the queen last week?” Miriel stares at her until she looks away. “Forgive me.”

“No, you bring up a good point. Last week was about politics, this is about science. And besides, I was right in the end.” Bad methodology and impulsive behavior, habits that have been plaguing her since Robin’s first appearance. “How did you know about that?”

“My father told me about it.”

Miriel blinks at her, remembers the rich girl on the papers. “What was your name again?”

“I am Nie of House Ora,” the girl says, biting her lip again.

“How compact your names are,” Miriel says in surprise. “So, your father, who does not let you outside these walls, is a general in the king’s army? I did not know that General Ora had a daughter.”

“I don’t really get out much.”

“Hm. You may mention to him that if it is your safety he worries about, a battalion provided for us would be most useful in keeping you alive.”

“How…” The girl, Nie, balks. “The application said there was no great risk to my life!”

“There isn’t, but you never know what might happen. Risen soldiers, undead, dreadful cold, and all that. Do mention it to him, dear. I hate being nice to people.”

“What? I will, but—”

“Now, the Risen.” With a lighter heart, Miriel turns back to her plans, glad that at least this obstacle is cleared and out of the way. “Remind me where I was again?”

Nie sighs. “You were discussing the applicability of one set of data from one series of observations on a whole.”

“Wonderful. Let us continue.”

The Risen creature snarls and jolts in an inhuman, disgusting way, weakly and sluggishly struggling against its bonds. Lon’qu steps back hastily, but he keeps his sword ready.

It’s difficult to take notes accurately, as bundled as she is in the horrible coat Lon’qu foisted onto her that morning. Nie’s worse off, her fingers inseparable under the mittens, but Miriel cannot spare her a thought because the quill has fallen from her hands and into the snow. She reaches to grab it—

“No!” Lon’qu’s voice cries out, and his arm shoots out to pull her back. His face is enraged. “You swore you wouldn’t let your guard down if I let you near it.”

“Him,” Nie says, quietly but firmly. Miriel looks at her and she blushes, but she does not apologize. This is rare, so Miriel does not spend too much time waiting for an explanation. It will come or it will not, she has learned. She’s learned much about the girl during their weeks alone together with nothing but data, Lon’qu’s mother-hen-ing, and various Risen subjects.

She plucks the quill from the snow and stands back, then further back, until Lon’qu relaxes. Nie’s eyes are still on the strange Risen before them. This one is more alive; its movements less jerky. The time it has spent in the snow and the cold clearly contributed to its apparent freshness. There it is again, Miriel notices. She thinks of the Risen in terms of corpses. She looks at the thing’s strange mask of pain and gold.

“Nie,” she finally says. “Do not be fooled into assigning these subjects your own humanity. It will distract from your purposes here.” Nie bites her lip, like she does so often, and says nothing. She doesn’t look away from the strange Risen creature. Miriel beckons her to follow and leaves as Lon’qu readies his sword. They trudge back to the cabin through the snow and Lon’qu dispatches the creature behind them. Miriel catches Nie wiping her eyes.

She approaches Lon’qu about the complications as the sun sets, as they sit outside on the little porch while Nie slumbers within, exhausted from her emotional overreactions.

“The girl is weak.”

“No, she’s _human_. She’s just… I don’t know. Upset, maybe.”

“Obviously,” Miriel snaps. “She’s obviously upset. It’s the reason that she’s upset that eludes me. What on earth has gotten into her? She was fine in the discussions prior to this.”

“Well, Miriel, sometimes things are one way in the abstract and then very different in reality.”

“Yes,” Miriel concedes, proud of him for realizing that to be so. “She has not confronted such sights herself, so she is overwhelmed now. But with repeated exposure she will be fine.”

“No—”

“Yes, with extended exposure she will become numb to the anxieties of seeing the Risen and desensitized to the stimulus.”

“Miriel.”

“Tomorrow, we will leave her with one of the creatures.”

“Miriel! No!”

“With a sword, and you nearby, she will be fine. We will bind the creature to ensure her safety further. I cannot have an apprentice so weak to her feelings and her fears. Yes, tomorrow, let us find their Chief.”

Lon’qu sighs.

“He’s hungry, I think.”

“Nie.” Miriel puts her head in her hands for the first time in her recent memory. “Nie.”

“No. No, this time you won’t kill him.”

“It.”

“He!” Nie looks down at her sketch. It’s a good sketch, as her sketches usually are. Scientific and detail oriented, well-planned and accurate. But there’s a feeling to it, a sentimentality that shines through.

“Nie, we are cutting this habit out of you immediately. You cannot be an effective researcher if you are so weighed down by the weaknesses of man.” Nie does not respond, staring sullenly at the Risen chief that breathes heavily against the tree trunk they’ve tied him to.

“I don’t need to be an effective researcher. I need only be an honest one. And I am telling you _I see _something.”

Miriel gives up just then and puts her notes away in her satchel. “I will leave you here, with weaponry, and perhaps this will remind you of the gulf between you and the thing before you.”

“I see a bridge.”

“Stop this,” Miriel demands, and leaves her. Lon’qu is waiting nearby, something disappointed in his gaze.

“You botched that,” he says.

Miriel shoves past him. “I did not.”

“You did,” he insists. “You know, when we get married, we’re going to have to work on our… issues.”

She shoots him a look of horror. “What issues?”

“Like, our issues with people that aren’t us.”

“Yes. I do have some problems communicating with those who are not you.” He smiles and takes her hand, and they stare into each other’s eyes until the Risen Chief behind them huffs a noise and Miriel finds herself back by Nie’s side, pulling her backwards. Lon’qu’s sword is drawn. Nie giggles.

“He’s smiling!”

“He isn’t,” Miriel says weakly. Her heart is pounding, and she can see Lon’qu’s sword shake. The Risen Chief has not moved, and only stares at Nie in silence. They’ve overreacted. She looks at Lon’qu and is surprised to see his face pinker than it had been a moment earlier. “All right,” she says. “Lon’qu and I need to talk. We will be nearby.”

She waits until they are out of earshot and then hisses: “What on earth has become of us?”

Lon’qu looks at her in helpless confusion. Miriel thinks for a moment, applying all her reasoning to the strange situation and then the realization arrives in her mind. She grabs Lon’qu’s shoulders firmly, forcing him to look at her. “I think we may be projecting our anxieties about parenthood onto her. I wish to mold her not only into my perfect apprentice, but into _myself_.”

Lon’qu’s confusion transforms into horror. Miriel points at his sword. “You were terrified for her life despite all logic pointing to her safety.” Lon’qu snorts. And then his face settles into realization.

“We’ve left the girl alone with a monster.”

“We are horrific parents.”

“Practicing parents,” Lon’qu reminds her, and they run back together to Nie, who is showing her sketches to the Chief. Miriel lets her horror fade for an objective glance at the situation. The Chief looks almost calm. Almost intelligent. He even nods at the beginnings of a sketch of himself.

Miriel, for the second time in recent memory, covers her face with her hands. “Very well,” she says. “We will reshape this critical venture for your damned creature.”

“His name is Axe,” Nie says.

“Why on earth,” Miriel demands, “is his name Axe? How can you support such a claim?”

Nie smiles. “He keeps asking for one.”

Lon’qu grabs Nie and pulls her back behind him, and Nie waves goodbye to the Chief. The Chief looks unmoved, rotting and grim as any other Risen, but something human peeks through. Miriel almost sees it for a moment when Lon’qu says: “All right, ladies, that’s enough for today.” The Chief had looked annoyed.

“But tomorrow,” Nie says seriously, “we have to start tests on his reasoning skills. We have to make sure he does not deteriorate, perhaps with regular exercise we can prevent the effects of whatever reanimates them.”

There’s a light of hope and excitement in her eyes, but Miriel knows that the thing before them will decay. “We’ll run tests on him tomorrow,” she concedes, unable to tell her the reality of the Risen Chief’s situation.

The Chief is astonishingly bright. Not quite intelligent, not in the true sense, but aware and sentient and fully cognizant of his situation. He speaks slowly, in great pains, and his voice is heavy with an untold weight. Miriel observes all this, sees it, and notices that in the few weeks they study him, he deteriorates in small increments. Just as she predicted, the snow cannot keep off the effects of whatever curse binds him.

Nie is blind to it.

Nie draws him, performs tests like they’re games, and writes all night long in her little observation book, and her eyes are bright. Miriel says nothing, but she waits. This will be Nie’s project, and if Nie can find her way through it, she will be Miriel’s first and only apprentice.

It takes, to Miriel’s great pride, only another week. She hears it in Nie’s voice over breakfast when it shakes and halts in relaying her observations.

“He… has forgotten what I call him.”

Miriel says nothing.

“But he remembers me.”

Lon’qu kicks her under the table.

“A small miracle,” Miriel says flatly, and Nie only looks darker and more unhappy. She pushes her chair back and stands, her face tight and distraught.

“Nie, the snow is coming down too strong. We can’t—” Lon’qu starts, obviously trying to make up for Miriel’s failure, but Nie is already running out the door and back outside. He watches her go with a grim look. “We need to go,” he tells Miriel. “You can talk her into thinking straight.”

“Me?” He nods, turning back to his bread with a ferocity born of avoidance.

“Very well,” Miriel agrees. She is my apprentice, so I understand her best.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think,” Miriel begins, wondering about that light in Nie’s eyes and those sketches infused with love and care, “that she will be… fine?”

Lon’qu does not answer, simply wraps himself and then her in layer after layer of cloth, but she doesn’t know if he might have eventually responded because a scream tears right through them.

“He’s gone!” Nie screams. She’s kneeling in the snow ahead. Miriel steps in something strange as she approaches, numb from the cold. The girl buried is to her elbow in the cold and the snow swirls about them, not strong yet, but thick enough to obscure everything. Miriel leans down and picks up a packet of papers, whipping off her wet glasses and holding the strange sketches close to her face so that she can see what they are.

“Nie,” she begins. Nie stands suddenly.

“The tracks go this way, hurry,” she gasps, and she runs off. Lon’qu follows without a word, sword drawn, and Miriel looks down at the papers again. They’re drawings, each annotated and one of them is meticulously labeled as ‘Axe; morning.’ Another as ‘Axe; laughter (sort of)’. That’s all she can manage to read before her eyes feel the strain. She pockets them all before she follows.

There’s a steady downfall of snow as she goes, and it comes down heavier the longer she forces her legs through the snow. All she can see ahead of her is the dark outline of Lon’qu, calling out for Nie to slow down. They disappear further ahead as she slows, against her will, and stops to catch her breath. Fear finds her, then, alone in the snow without him. She sends out a prayer and does something stupid, the fear dumbing her, and casts flames ahead twenty paces.

No sign of them, thank the heavens, but the path ahead is briefly illuminated. She follows it, without evidence to trust that she should, and prays that Lon’qu finds Nie before anything else does.

She comes across them, finally, still obscured in the white. But she can hear Lon’qu’s breathing and Nie’s strange sniffles. Lon’qu approaches her, that much she can hear, and he takes her in his arms and moves her forward, guiding her towards the strange, sniffling, keening noise.

“She’s put him down,” Lon’qu whispers. “He asked her to in the end. I would have, but I can’t see a damned thing. I’m surprised he could still talk.”

Miriel’s heart breaks for Nie, it does, but she feels some relief. At least, lying dead in the snow, was a monster and not a little girl. She reaches her arms out blindly until she finds Nie and pulls her closer, shaking and crying, and helps her stand.

“It’s dangerous to be out here,” she says. “We need to return to the cabin. We can make the journey home tomorrow.”

Nie falls back into her shoulder, still weeping, and Miriel cannot see but she can feel the added weight of the Risen Chief in the girl’s arms.

“Miriel? Are you— Miriel! _What is going on?” _Robin comes in like a hurricane to Miriel’s ears, and Miriel flaps her arms at her and gestures angrily to Nie sleeping soundly on Lon’qu’s shoulder by the fire. Robin stares, aghast.

“Incredible. Is that Lon’qu? Domesticated?”

Miriel sniffs. “I domesticated him long before this.”

Robin comes to the desk, stepping over that same pile of books from that day all those weeks ago. “I’ve been tiptoeing around hell since you left, you know. I used the wrong spoon at the ball, and no one was there to talk about Risen experiments to distract the public. Hope you’re happy.”

Miriel frowns. “Why on earth would a spoon matter?”

“You sound like Chrom, he’s been in a rage since Lady Ora coughed in the middle of dinner and said it didn’t surprise her that a young lady with no memories let alone no background would forget how to eat.”

“I’d have liked to have seen that,” Miriel muses.

“It was terrible,” Robin shudders. “That’s Nie’s aunt you know. Do you think Nie will take it personally?”

Miriel doubts she will. “What brings you here? You usually give us time to recuperate and such before you come barging in.”

“Heard you’d traumatized a child.”

Nie’s bright eyes, dull on the ride back to the castle, occupy Miriel’s mind as she considers a response. “It wasn’t on purpose. She’s recovering well.”

“I’m sure,” Robin said gently. “You’re a good teacher.”

“I’m not,” Miriel mutters. “I’m really not. I didn’t listen to a word she said, and then I let her interact with that thing even though I knew it’d hurt her. She’s all heart.”

“All heart? Miriel, that’s new for you. You don’t think she’s a fool?”

“No. I’m the fool,” Miriel sighs. She pulls the pages from Nie’s notebooks from her pocket and shows them to Robin.

“Oh,” Robin breathes. Oh, indeed. Robin turns to the girl slumbering on Lon’qu’s shoulder and tilts her head like someone curious, but Miriel knows she’s plotting something.

“What’s going through that considerable skull, Your Majesty?”

“Plans,” Robin says. “Maybe the crown needs a new committee, maybe that committee needs a few new liaisons. Maybe it’s time Chrom and I led another campaign.”

“Sounds interesting,” Miriel says, but she taps a finger to the desk to get Robin’s attention. “Leave Nie out of your plans. This girl is not one for putting aside her feelings, I’ll account for her data myself.”

“Then you’ll dismiss her?”

“Nonsense. No. I will teach her, but I will not put her through a harrowing experience like this one again.”

Robin smiles, in the warm kind way she reserves for Chrom and her friends and occasionally a kind stranger. “Yes,” she sighs. “I didn’t think I’d be able to get through Lon’qu anyway. He looks quite vicious for a man pretending to sleep.” Lon’qu twitches, that frown still ferociously etched into his face.

“My future husband,” Miriel informs the queen, “is very protective. It’s delightful.”

“Sure, Miriel. Tell him to stop stewing. I guess it’s a good thing Nie has you two, I won’t take her away, Lon’qu. Rest easy.”

“My fiancé’s face has not cleared, Your Majesty. I believe you should go so that I may calm him.”

“Going,” Robin snorts. “Goodnight, to the three of you.”

When Robin leaves, Lon’qu cracks one eye open and lowers his head to look at Nie’s open-mouthed slumber. “She’s sleeping soundly.”

“Yes. A relief.”

“We messed this up pretty bad,” Lon’qu says, and Miriel feels the guilt on his face in her heart. Nie does not stir, face clear and tear-streaked, but peaceful. “Her father may kill us. General Ora is well-known for his doting habits.”

“He may. But she’s still here, and she’s sleeping without nightmares.”

“What do we do next?”

“We deliver her to her father, give her a moment to rest, and then I will teach her.”

“Keeping her?”

Miriel looks down at the sketches on her desk that she has not been able to get rid of, the meticulous notes, the incisive observations between the little asides about Axe saying ‘Nie’ for the first time. Perhaps love is as central as passion in the search for knowledge. She does not know yet.

“I want to learn, too,” she says. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this nonsense, it was mostly an excuse to write miriel without eye-searing thesaurus functions and robin as a tired, resourceful queen.


End file.
